Degrees
by Drama Kitten NY
Summary: Roger is sick. Mark is coming to terms with his grief, most definitely M/R.


Disclaimer and A/N: None of the characters are mine except for some random band members. I already have most of this story written out, I just don't feel like typing it all up at once. So...unlike the others which are in limbo, this one will be updated as frequently as possible. The story takes place over an exact period of time, thus the dates for reference. It's almost a mental diary. Please review!  
  
  
  
  
  
April 5th ---  
  
I hadn't ever considered what it might be like to lose one of our own. Not since Angel. That feeling, of being rent in two from the inside out, hasn't plagued me since last Halloween. What I feel doesn't matter, not to them. I'm the strong one, he who must carry on and endure. You could say I cement the entire group together. I'm the hinge, always supporting, causing doors to open but never stepping through them myself. Now I lack even the strength to move on.   
  
It's raining outside, tiny droplets rolling down the stained, cracked glass. I sit here, alone, running my fingers absently over a jagged line, staring blankly as the rain runs in little rivers over the window sill. For a moment I'm unaware of tiny red streaks mingling with the muddied green of the water. A spasm of pain courses through me and it's then I venture a glance down at my hand. A long cut in the shape of an 'L' burns on my palm. I ignore the blood and pain, returning to my vegetable state instead. Maybe if I just let the blood ebb out of my body, maybe I won't be so alone. This feeling of being stabbed over and over again might flow away with the crimson liquid.   
  
A hacking cough reverberates through the dim room, pulling me out of my thoughts. Once lively features peer lifelessly at me from under a mountain of stark white sheets. How can this be happening? The doctors say he has a good chance of surviving, that pneumonia isn't always life threatening, even for HIV positive patients, but in my heart I know better. If he was going to make it, I wouldn't feel this way, slightly more empty each day, memories fading with him. I'm here, each morning when he wakes up, forcing a smile through my tears. That plastered grin makes his day, or so he tells me. I don't see how it can do much, seeing me feign happiness while he lays there, seconds ticking away. For him, I'd do anything.   
  
"They tell me you've been spending nights here." How can such strong vocal chords produce that soft and hollow sound? Shouldn't I be the one whispering? Speaking words of comfort in hushed tones? This role reversal is unfair. I stand from my chair by the window, noting that the blood flow has since died off. After standing in front of the neverending white sea of bed for several seconds, I lay down gently beside him. My thin arms wrap tightly around his shivering body, my entire will concentrated on transferring warmth, life, anything but that empty feeling.   
  
"I couldn't leave you here alone, not with how you get." Hours spent beside Roger's bed flash back to me, waking in the middle of the night, rushing from my room to his, comforting him with nonsensical stories and pointless lullabies. He's always been afraid of the darkness. Even more so of being alone. How could I abandon him to the cruel night of the hospital? Death stalks these hallways, I can always sense it. "Besides, you know very well I'd be at home worrying constantly. It's better that I'm here and don't even think of arguing."  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it, love." His hands mangage to softly squeeze mine, and I can tell he's a little weaker, losing some of that strength. Suddenly he freezes, turning one of my hands over and over in his. "Baby...? What happened to your hand?" I'd almost forgotten the cut, but now a twinge of pain flashes back to me, mixing with the echo of hurt and loss that's already begun to build.   
  
"I'm fine. I accidentally sliced it on a piece of broken glass. Really, it's nothing." Liar! It hurts and it's bound to start bleeding again. Nothing is getting a tiny papercut or knicking your chin when you shave. Nothing is *hardly* a huge cut from a broken window on the palm of your hand. I slide as close as possible to Roger, resting my head gently on his shoulder. He turns my hand over, rubbing the back of it ever so gently.   
  
"Did you sleep well?" I close my eyes and just lay there, feeling his heart beat, listening to him breathe in and out.   
  
"Not really. Maybe I can...now...if you tell me a story?" Without opening my eyes I can see that gorgeous smile, small and sheepish, slightly child-like. It's one of the things I love most about Roger, the smile that lights up his eyes. I nod against his back and already know what he wants to hear. "Tell me about how we found eachother?"   
  
With a soft sigh of contentment, I nod once more. Every time the story gets told, it's in the same words. It's short, but one of the most precious memories I'll ever have. "I was fixing the camera one day, when you stormed into the apartment, slamming doors left and right. Immediately I knew something awful had happened, and I wanted to be there for you, comfort you. I tried to ask why you were upset, and you mumbled something about Mimi before climbing out onto the fire escape. You sat there, shouting at me, telling me I would never understand, that I would always be alone and maybe it was better that way. But you wouldn't tell me why. I just assumed you were saying it to hurt me, so I left you alone, went back to working on the camera. The last thing I wanted was to fight with you."  
  
I pause for a moment and notice that his breathing has slowed slightly. If I move, he'll wake up, so I just lie there thinking about the end of our story...or rather the beginning. After trying for an hour to concentrate on the camera, I couldn't contain my curiousity any longer. With a warm cup of tea and a blanket in my arms, I clambered out onto the fire escape. He was sitting there, gorgeous as ever, staring dreamily out at the city. Not wanting to disturb whatever thought he was lost in, I tossed the blanket across his shoulders and sat down beside him. For what seemed like hours, we sat there, neither one of us saying anything, exactly as we were when April died.   
  
Finally Roger grabbed the other half of the blanket and wrapped it around me. Still, he didn't say a word, just stared off into the distance, eyes fixed on some unknown destiny. I longed to tell him then, finally get rid of the guilt and emotions that had been plaguing me for years. As I opened my mouth to speak, I heard him mumble something very softly. Something that sounded distinctly like 'I left her', or was that just my own desire taking over? Hearing what it wanted to hear?   
  
"I couldn't stay with her. I'm not...in love with her anymore." 


End file.
